


cold. so cold.

by mfyu04



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Everything takes place after tommy's death in prison, Gen, hope it's not too ooc seeing as it's my first dsmp fic :), i dont know how tags work help, jschlatt and mexican dream are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 12:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mfyu04/pseuds/mfyu04
Summary: (// slight derealization ; blood (not too graphic))Tommy finds himself in Limbo.(it's so cold).He's all alone.(he's not the only one).Wilbur welcomes him.:).
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	cold. so cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Limbo is a weird place to exist in.  
> (Or; this is my fic, I get to write how Tommy's death in limbo went. Canon who? Don't know her)
> 
> "Love" is mentioned once: it's very much platonic. Please don't misunderstand that
> 
> Also sorry if it gets a bit too confusing (it's meant to be but i may have overdone it at some places; if you have any criticism please hmu)

“Tommy.” 

Tommy slightly stirred, groaning. Everything felt cold. “What the fuck do you want?” 

“Tommy, wake up. Tommy. TommyInnit.  
\- … What.  
\- Wake up.   
\- Stop that.  
\- Toms. Tommy. Child. Wake up.” 

He finally sat up, annoyed. He was so, 𝘴𝘰 exhausted. “Let me fucking sleep, you dick.” 

He squinted his eyes. Why was it so dark? He looked around, confused.  
“Where even are you?”   
The voice didn’t answer.   
“Hey, dickhead.” 

He was alone. 

Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t exactly 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬.   
There was simply… 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.   
(When the voice finally spoke, his surroundings changed and gave place to a metro, cards and broken reflections of himself lying beneath him.   
The train underneath gently swayed.   
The murmur of a crowd could be heard outside.  
He could open the doors. He could leave.   
He reached out.   
There was nothing.   
There had never been anything.   
Everything was so cold.)

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.

“Do you know who I am?  
\- … Wilbur.” 

Wilbur chuckled lightly, but there was no humour in his voice. He glanced down at Tommy’s hand, still grabbing the handle of the door. “Do you intend to stay on the floor? I wouldn’t if I were you. You might want to get up before something happens.” 

And so Tommy stood up. He was about to let go of the handle when he remembered he never touched it in the first place. He frowned. “Where are we?” 

Like a proud performer, Wilbur opened up his arms, designating the empty space with a grin. 

“This, dear TommyInnit, is 𝘓𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘰.” 

“Say, what the fuck is a Limbo?  
\- 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 is Limbo.  
\- You told me that. A lot. What is it?  
\- It has many names. I call it Limbo. Schlatt used to call it Hell. Mexican Dream… We… We don’t talk about Mexican Dream.”   
He hummed. “I’ve heard souls whisper stories about the In Between, the Purgatory, the Great Nothing, Heaven… it all boils down to what you believe.  
\- Then what, it’s like, death?  
\- It depends on how you view it, Tommy.  
\- So, death.  
\- Not quite.  
\- Well you’re dead, I’m dead, so I’d say death is a pretty good n—“ 

He stopped.   
Dead? He wasn’t dead.   
His vision blurred (not that it mattered here) and he shook his head. He couldn't be dead.  
(But he was so cold.) 

Wilbur was still smiling. (He always was.)   
It didn’t reach his eyes. (It never did.) 

“How the fuck do I get out of here? Why am I even here?  
\- It won’t matter soon.  
\- Stop being so cryptic, man— what does cryptic mean?  
\- Do you want to play competitive solitaire with me?  
\- What’s that?  
\- I’m glad you’re here, Tommy.  
\- Well I’m not. Glad, I mean.  
\- You're merely a child.  
\- What— well that's just rude.   
\- You are not a hero.  
\- ... Wilbur? Why are you acting so strange? I mean, not that you’re not usually a freak but still—“ 

(He looked up at the feeling of a hand petting his hair. Nothingness and cards danced before his eyes. 

Wilbur wasn’t here.   
He never was. 

He was alone.)

Tommy opened his eyes again (it didn’t matter). Exhaustion washed over him. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed since he last saw Wilbur. He was so lonely. And so cold.

“It wasn’t Wilbur.” 

He grumbled. He was tired of them. The voices. The thoughts.   
“Mind your own business.” 

A boy sat down on the bench next to him. He brought with him the feeling of the wind and the lingering touch of the sun. Careless laughter and unconditional love. 

It felt forced. Sickening. 

(He was smiling, Tommy thinks. It didn’t reach his eyes.)

“Tommy.  
\- … Tubbo.  
\- I like it here. Our bench, our sunset… It's nice.  
\- It’s not. It’s just… a way of telling ourselves we're finally free. It always goes to shit after, though. It's just pretend, you know.  
\- I think it’s nice.  
\- Whatever you say big man.” 

It 𝘥𝘪𝘥 feel nice. It used to be. 

“Did you miss me? I’m sure you did.  
\- It’s been quieter since you left.  
\- I didn’t leave.” 

He would never leave. Not like that. Not because he wanted to. 

“Why are you here?  
\- You’re better off in a place like this. It suits you.  
\- It really doesn’t. I’m all alone. Wilbur was around for a while, but then he wasn’t. Turns out he’s never been.  
\- It wasn’t Wilbur.  
\- Well yeah, because he wasn’t here to begin with. I'm the only one stuck in this shithole.  
\- He was here. A long time ago. He left. ...They both left.   
\- You’re not making any sense, Tubbo.” 

Tubbo was still not looking at him, focused on the horizon in front of him. It was stupid, in Tommy’s opinion. There wasn’t anything to see. 

He was cold. 

“When will you be coming back?  
\- I don’t need to ‘come back’. I never left. I just need to find a way out.  
\- You’re probably right.  
\- I’m always right—  
\- It's best you stay here. It's nice.  
\- Stop saying that.  
\- Why are you trying to be a hero Tommy?  
\- ... What?”

(The last thing he felt was the freezing warmth of a setting sun. 

Tubbo wasn’t here. 

Why would he be?)

He was alone. 

He'd been alone from the start.

Tommy didn't open his eyes for a long time. 

He didn't want to. 

(It was so cold.)

He realized he was dead. 

(He had been for a while.) 

He was alone.

He was dead, alone, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Did he deserve that? 

He was almost certain he didn't.

The next time Tommy opened his eyes (or anything of equal importance), something was different. He didn’t know what, but he could feel it.   
The voices were silent. It was no surprise; they had grown tired a long time ago. 

(It wasn’t so cold anymore.) 

In the distance, something moved. 

It was brief, almost like a figment of his worn-out imagination, but it did. Hope spread in his chest. 

Just like that, the emptiness was gone. The nothingness had lifted its curtains. 

He was not alone. 

He was not alone anymore.

He got up, walking, then running—stumbling and falling like a newborn, but still running, running until his non-existent lungs gave out under the effort, running until he couldn’t feel his feet, until he could only hear his breath (none of which existed). Running.

He suddenly stopped.

He hadn't moved at all. The distance was still the same, the frail something beginning to feel like nothing again. 

Was there any point in running? Maybe not. Tubbo was right (𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘛𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘰). Him staying in here was best for everyone. 

He wasn’t needed. He wasn't a hero.

But he hated ‘here’. (Limbo, as Wilbur (𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘣𝘶𝘳?) had called it. Whatever that meant.) 

He didn’t want to stay there. 

He did not belong. 

He never did. 

This was not his home.

But he was so, 𝘴𝘰 exhausted. 

He closed his eyes (it never did matter in the end, he decides) and let himself fall back into nothingness.

A hand caught him.

“Hello, Tommy. You finally decided to join us.” 

He blinked. 

Was he in Limbo? 

It didn’t feel like it. 

As if they read his thoughts, the person in front of him laughed softly. A pained, but real laugh, this time. 

“Welcome to Limbo, dear TommyInnit.”

Fuck.

His body ached. He didn’t like it one bit. But it meant he was real. His existence was real.   
(That was maybe the only thing that mattered, he believed.)

He watched as Wilbur laid the cards in front of him (he had seen these cards someplace else, a place akin to this one, but far more empty, far more 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨). 

It had been a few days (or was it weeks?) since Wilbur had informed Tommy of the place he was in. He didn’t say anything after that, and didn’t seem to be planning to for a while. 

Tommy had tried to get answers out of him. And Tommy was stubborn, willing to annoy the shit out of anyone to get what he wanted. But it seemed like Wilbur had become far more patient (at least when it came to Tommy. He saw how mad he got when Schlatt took his deck, and he never wants that anger directed towards him).   
His Wilbur would have given up by now, he likes to think.

His hands wriggled in his lap.   
“What are you doing? With the cards, I mean.   
\- Why? Do you want to play?  
\- N— No, I’m fine.” 

Tommy knows he shouldn’t feel safe around the man who manipulated him, depriving him of all that he cared about, destroying his childhood and his only home.   
Never acknowledging it.   
If the man did care, he didn’t show it.   
(But in this place, something about him seemed foreign yet so calm, so peaceful… he couldn't help but trust him, just a little. Although he would never admit it, nor to himself, nor to the man.  
He did once think of him as his brother, after all.) 

As if he came to a decision, Wilbur sighed. He put the deck next to him (he glared at a nearby drunk Schlatt, as if daring him to steal even one of his cards again) and he locked eyes with Tommy.   
He hadn’t until now.   
His eyes, ringed with fatigue, were a shade of dull red, like it had been washed out for years and years on end. It reminded Tommy of Ghostbur’s soft and muted blue eyes. (They both seemed so 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸. Like a puzzle missing a piece.) 

“I’m sorry.” 

Tommy’s eyebrows shot up. What? 

“I’m sorry for what I put you through when I… when we were alive. Listen— I still think I did the right thing by blowing up L’Manberg, and I don’t regret it one bit. But I’ve had time to think— 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦— and… what I did to you was not, it was…” He stopped, biting away one of the rare surviving nails of his hand. 

(Dark blood dripped down his finger, making its way into the sleeve of his messy old coat. Why was he bleeding?) 

Tommy took pity on him and finished his thought : “An asshole move.  
\- I—” Wilbur chuckled heartlessly, “yeah. Worse than the worst asshole.  
\- I know.” 

(He didn’t want to forgive him. He had been a terrible friend. A terrible 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. He had trusted him. The first time in years. And Wilbur had betrayed that trust.) 

Tommy didn’t like the solemnity of the conversation, nor the look on Wilbur's face, and decided to simply move on. “Whatever man. We’re both dead now, so I guess it doesn’t matter.  
\- It does matter, Tommy.  
\- Yeah, and I’ll be the bigger man and tell you that I forgive you, something something, you’re my broth— friend. I can’t hate you anyway. Is that what you want to hear?  
\- You don’t have to forgive me. I just want you to know I’m sorry.” 

This was giving him a headache. Wilbur seemed honest in his words, and he didn’t quite appreciate it. It felt… bizarre. Why did it feel so 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨?  
“You know what? You’re right, I don’t have to suck it up and forgive you, bitch. So I won’t. But I just want to change the subject, and maybe get some answers for once. So apology accepted. For now. Call that a temporary peace. Alright?” 

Wilbur nodded and resumed laying down his cards. His voice was measurably weaker— more strained than before.   
“Then tell me, what do you want to know? I can’t answer all of your questions. You will have to figure some of them out by yourself. I'm sorry I can't do more.  
\- Right, right, ever the so mysterious man. Stop apologizing, it's fucking weird. ...So first, where 𝘢𝘳𝘦 we?  
\- I told you. We are in—  
\- Yeah. Limbo. But this doesn’t feel like Limbo. Well, that’s what the other Wilbur told me it was.  
\- It is Limbo, though.  
\- I already went to a place called Limbo or whatever. It wasn’t… 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. It was just 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.   
\- The gateway. It’s—  
\- The what?  
\- Tommy, please shut up and let me speak.” 

Tommy muttered something similar to a swear word in response but didn’t add anything else. 

“Thank you. So. I call it the gateway, but I don’t actually know its name. I don’t think it has one. It’s part of Limbo, so calling it Limbo would be correct, but I agree that… it doesn’t feel right. Something is very, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 off with this place. It's—” Blood spattered onto the cards Wilbur was holding. He cursed under his breath, wiping sloppily his nose with his already-stained sleeve. 

(Tommy watched, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of his brother's blood staining the floor, which had begun sizzling at the touch. What was happening to him?) 

“I— I was told it's— fuck—  
\- You alright..?  
\- Don't worry about it. It happens. I was— right. I was told it's where souls first go after their death. They usually don’t linger long, and… most go to the Afterlife, I guess. Well, I don’t think there 𝘪𝘴 an Afterlife, but you get the idea. They just go.  
\- But why aren’t they here with us? So far I’ve only seen you, Mexican Dream and that fucker Schlatt. Or whatever that feral-looking ram thing is supposed to be.  
\- Because we weren’t supposed to die yet. The wait... It won't last long.  
\- What do you mean?” 

Wilbur offered a smile that sent shivers down Tommy’s spine, but it was gone as quickly as it came, leaving Tommy to wonder if he had imagined it. 

“However, some souls don't get to move on, and get stuck in that place. They are doomed to wander the gateway until time itself consumes them. It’s said to be the fate of those who cannot accept their death and are driven insane by the illusions and tricks the gateway offers… Or the memories.” 

Just like Tommy almost did.   
Wilbur’s expression was so grave that Tommy couldn’t help but ask, “Did you also…?  
\- I was trapped there. Schlatt as well, although it was long before me. That's why he's like this,” he vaguely gestured to the now sleeping ram, “He paid the price to escape this place.  
\- Then how are you here? Or you know, not as messed up as Schlatt?” 

Wilbur stopped, hand still hovering over the cards. The red in his eyes shone for a split moment, darkening the shadow under them. He seemed so tired. (It almost made Tommy's heart clench. Almost.) 

“We… I also had to lose something important to us.  
\- Us?”

The silence stretched on.

(The floor all around them was littered with cards, Tommy registered. He scowled. His body was heavy with exhaustion.)

“Wil?”

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.

Wilbur spoke up. (𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥.)

He was smiling. (𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥.)

It didn't reach his eyes. (𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥.)

“Wake up.”

A maniacal laughter echoed in the empty prison.

“Welcome back, Tommy.”

**Author's Note:**

> No beta reading, we misuse english words like the big boys we are (but please do tell if you find anything weird)
> 
> The Twitter (I do the Art): https://twitter.com/mfyu04?s=09   
> (Or @mfyu04 if link doesn't work; feel free to message me about anything, or just to chat!)


End file.
